


Scrutiny

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Bakuman
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, First Dates, Fluff and Smut, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8043553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'Seriously,' Yuujirou slurs from where his head has ended up somewhere against the support of Akira’s shoulder. 'You’re...you’re a good friend, you know, Hattori.' Akira laughs. 'You know I’m not going to believe anything you say when you’ve had this much to drink.'" Yuujirou gets tipsy and Akira gets him home.





	1. Outside

“Seriously,” Yuujirou slurs from where his head has ended up against the support of Akira’s shoulder. “You’re...you’re a good friend, you know, Hattori.”

Akira laughs. “You know I’m not going to believe anything you say when you’ve had this much to drink.”

“It’s not about the _alcohol_ ,” Yuujirou tells him, lifting his head with some monumental force of will and the push of the arm he currently has draped around Akira’s shoulders. Akira is fairly sure that’s the only thing keeping the other man upright, if the unsteady stumble of his footsteps is any indication. “And ‘m not that drunk anyway.”

“Yes you are,” Akira says, hearing gentle amusement rumbling under his voice. “I’m going to get a taxi to take you home. Do you want me to make sure you get there safely?”

“I can get myself to my own _home_ ,” Yuujirou insists. His arm slides around Akira’s shoulders, comes up to weight heavy against the other’s neck; it’s only him grabbing at a handful of Akira’s shirt and Akira tensing his hold around Yuujirou’s waist that keeps him from sliding to collapse to the sidewalk completely. “Anyway. You’re not listening. I’m...I’m trying to _compliment_ you.”

“Yeah, okay,” Akira soothes. “I’m listening.”

“Good.” Yuujirou’s hold pulls hard at Akira’s shirt again, exerting enough force to drag the fabric sideways against the other’s shoulder. “What I’m _saying_ is. Is.”

“That I’m a good friend?” Akira suggests.

“Yes,” Yuujirou agrees. “That. A good friend. It’s good to work with you.”

“Thank you,” Akira says. “It’s always a pleasure to work with you too.”

“Yeah.” Yuujirou goes quiet for a moment. Akira can hear the shuffle of their joint footfalls, his own forming a clear rhythm with Yuujirou’s dragging a counterpoint underneath. Akira can still feel Yuujirou’s fingers tight against his shirt, can feel the tension along the other’s arm speaking to the strain of something left unsaid; so he stays quiet, even if he has no idea what it is Yuujirou is so determined to say, and lets the sound of their footsteps serve as the canvas against which Yuujirou can pull his intoxicated thoughts to clarity.

Finally Yuujirou takes a breath, deep and deliberate like he’s bracing himself for some dramatic statement. “Hattori--”

Akira feels him trip more than he sees it. The scuff of the other’s footfalls stops abruptly as the toe of his shoe catches at a crack in the sidewalk, their forward motion stalls as Yuujirou starts to topple forward; it’s only Akira stopping in time that saves them both from a precipitous fall to the sidewalk, and even then there’s a moment of uncertainty while Yuujirou wobbles on unsteady footing. Akira can feel him stumble forward, can all but see the other’s balance swinging wide and desperate, and when he tightens his hold on Yuujirou’s waist it’s by reflex rather than intent. Yuujirou’s footing skids, his arm swings wide, and between Akira’s hold on him and the desperate way he throws himself sideways he ends up stumbling into the other’s chest instead of falling facefirst to the sidewalk. His free hand closes hard at Akira’s shirtfront, his weight lands against the other’s support, and Akira takes a step backwards to brace them both as he reaches out to catch Yuujirou with his other arm as well. It’s a moment before he trusts that the crisis is over, another before he can find his voice around the rush of adrenaline that came with the temporary panic, and then he laughs, a low rumble of amusement that comes easy before Yuujirou has yet eased his hold on him.

“Careful there,” he says, the words coming just against the pale tangle of Yuujirou’s hair. “Let me get you home and we’ll pick this conversation up next time.”

Akira is expecting Yuujirou to let him go, to extricate himself with the heavy deliberation of intoxication so they can steer him to lean against a wall while Akira calls a taxi. But Yuujirou is still off-balance, or maybe still caught in that immediate flush of panic; Akira can hear the other breathing hard against his shoulder, can feel the heat of his exhales even through the fabric of his shirt. The hand at his shoulder tightens, pulling against him for a moment; it’s not until Yuujirou shifts his other hand that Akira realizes it’s slipped from around his shoulders, that the other’s fingers have caught against the back of his neck at the soft-short dark of his hair.

“Hattori,” Yuujirou says against his shirt, and there’s a strange sound under his voice, a determination Akira has only heard from him before on a handful of occasions. It makes Akira’s breathing catch on some surge of adrenaline he wasn’t expecting, makes the arm he has caught around Yuujirou tighten as if his own balance has suddenly become suspect; he feels a little like it has, as if Yuujirou’s words against his shoulder have left him as heat-dizzy as the weight of too much midday sunshine.

Akira takes a breath, feels the way it sticks oddly in his chest. “Yuujirou?”

Yuujirou tightens his hand at Akira’s shoulder and lifts his head from the other’s shirt. His cheeks are flushed to red, his mouth damp and lips parted; his gaze is hazy with intoxication, his lashes shifting slow with deliberate intent, but when he looks at Akira there’s something certain behind his eyes, some shadow of resolve that has nothing to do with the flickering heat of alcohol that is so staining his cheeks and lips. He holds Akira’s gaze for a long moment, while time goes strange and slow around them; and then his fingers shift, his hand slides up to catch against the back of Akira’s head, and he’s leaning in to press his mouth to the other’s without a flicker of hesitation.

Akira goes still. His eyes are still open, his arm still bracing Yuujirou against him; he can feel the curve of the other’s body as he leans in closer, can feel the shift of the touch at his hair sliding up to settle against the back of his head. Yuujirou’s mouth is warm against the cool of the dark air, his lips damp and softer than Akira would have ever guessed them to be; and then he makes a noise in the back of his throat, some tiny whimper of heat and surrender tangled inextricably together, and Akira’s eyes close of their own volition as his hand slides up to hold Yuujirou closer against him. His head is echoing itself to shocked silence, his heart is pounding harder with disbelief in his chest; but Yuujirou’s fingers are dragging into his hair, and Yuujirou is whining incoherent appreciation against his lips, and then he opens his mouth and Akira responds in kind to make an invitation of his parted lips before he can regain composure enough to think through the action. Yuujirou licks into his mouth without hesitating, his hands tightening as if he thinks Akira is going to pull away, and he tastes bright like alcohol and sweet like the sake he’s been drinking and Akira can feel Yuujirou’s flush catching to his own skin, can feel it purring down his spine and lacing over the rhythm of his heartbeat until his breathing is unravelling itself, until his heart is thudding itself to audibility against the inside of his chest. Yuujirou is melting against him, arching as close as he can get so the whole of his balance is trusted to Akira’s arm around him, and Akira is going dizzy with the taste of Yuujirou’s mouth and with the rush of his own scattered breathing and it’s then that he pulls away with a gasp to fill his lungs with the bracing cold of the air.

“We,” he starts, and his voice is lower than it usually is, he almost doesn’t recognize the sound of it in his throat. “We can’t do this here.”

“Hattori,” Yuujirou purrs in that same slurred-over heat, and his gaze is pinned to Akira’s mouth and his fingers are still in Akira’s hair and he looks dreamy, looks hot and smoky and more sultry than Akira ever suspected he could. “You taste so _good_.”

“Ah,” Akira stutters, and Yuujirou is coming back in, his lashes dipping to haze over his gaze as his hands tighten in Akira’s hair again. “We _can’t_ ” and he has to pull back, has to brace a hand at Yuujirou’s shoulder and push him away by inches to keep from losing himself to the heat of the other’s mouth again. Yuujirou stumbles backwards, his eyes fluttering open again while he whimpers over a plaintive note of confused displeasure, and for just a minute Akira can feel that one sound run straight through him like electricity, as if Yuujirou deliberately structured the sound of his voice to undo the self-restraint Akira hasn’t even been deliberately trying to maintain, that he hasn’t _needed_ to deliberately maintain before now. Yuujirou’s gaze drifts up, skimming over Akira’s mouth before refocusing on his eyes, and Akira has to swallow hard to find the voice to keep speaking at all.

“Not here,” he repeats, mitigating the immediacy of his rejection with the uncertainty of the future. Yuujirou stares at him for a moment, the shadow of bruised feelings still behind his eyes; then his lashes shift, the strain in his expression goes slack with understanding, and his mouth falls into an soft _O_ of epiphany just as Akira clears his throat with rough desperation. “We’re in public.”

Yuujirou’s head turns, his attention skipping from Akira’s face to glance around them like he hadn’t noticed the truth of this before. The street is empty, Akira is relieved to note; but Yuujirou is still clinging to him, his expression soft and hazy on the weight of desire, and even the flush of intoxication across the other’s cheeks will only go so far in making excuses for them if someone should appear.

“Let me--” Akira starts, and then his voices cracks into silence, his breathing catching against the weight of what he’s about to say. Yuujirou looks back at him, his eyes wide with intent focus, and Akira exhales in a rush as his arm tightens involuntarily around Yuujirou’s waist. “Let me get you home.”

“Home?” Yuujirou says, slow like he’s turning the sound of the word over in his head.

Akira swallows. “Yeah.”

Yuujirou tips his chin down to look up at Akira through the dark of his lashes. “Home’s not public.”

Akira’s chest is tight. “No,” he says, and lets his hand slide sideways against Yuujirou’s shoulder until he can lift two fingers to brush against the soft of the other’s hair tangling just over his collar. “It’s not.”

Yuujirou blinks again. “Okay,” he says, and lets his hold on Akira’s neck go with a dragging slide of his hands down the other’s chest that is far more deliberate and extended than it really needs to be. “Take me home, then.”

Akira doesn’t ask for clarification if it’s his home or Yuujirou’s the other means. Given how dark Yuujirou’s gaze is and how hard his own heart is beating, he doesn’t think it makes much of a difference to either of them which locked door they end up behind.


	2. Inside

Hattori’s house is tidier than Yuujirou expected it to be.

He doesn’t know why he thought it wouldn’t be. In retrospect he doesn’t have any good logic for said expectation; the other man’s desk at work is always arrayed in neat lines of manuscripts and notes and to-do lists, it only stands to reason that his home would be as clean. Yuujirou has been thinking of his own apartment, he supposes, with the clean shirts thrown across the backs of chairs and the laundry in a heap in the corner alongside the unmade bed, and really he’s glad they came back here after all, now that his intoxicated mind has made it around to the picture his home would present to Hattori had they returned there instead. He’ll have to clean better in the future, if only for the possibility of a reciprocal visit for this one at some later date; and that’s about as far as his wandering thoughts make it before Hattori gets the door shut behind them, and turns the lock to click into place, and turns back to where Yuujirou is standing dazed to inaction in the entryway.

“Ah,” Yuujirou says, coherency given over for inanity in the face of the way Hattori looks in the dark, with his hair shadowed to soft against his head and his eyes fixed to intensity on Yuujirou’s face. “Hattori.”

Hattori clears his throat. “You should probably call me Akira,” he says, and then he’s stepping forward and Yuujirou doesn’t have the time to do more than catch a single startled breath before the other’s hands are settling against his hips and Hattori’s fingers are tightening to brace against the weight of his jeans. Yuujirou reaches up without thinking, his fingers finding their way to their earlier resting place against the back of the other’s neck, and Hattori makes a low sound thrillingly close to a purr and ducks to press his mouth to Yuujirou’s without waiting for the urging of the other’s touch.

Yuujirou isn’t sure how they make it down the hallway. His shoes come off somehow, toed off in the entryway or kicked free along the path Hattori makes backing him down the route to what Yuujirou fevertly hopes is the bedroom; there’s a pause by the doorway to the bathroom as Yuujirou loses his balance and stumbles hard against the wall, and then they both lose several minutes to Hattori kissing heat against Yuujirou’s mouth while Yuujirou shudders and arches off the support behind him and generally wonders how feasible it would be to just stay right here for the foreseeable future. It’s Hattori who gets them moving again, ultimately, by dint of sliding his hand up off Yuujirou’s hip and catching under the fall of the other’s shirt until Yuujirou gasps and jerks with the ticklish electricity.

“Oh,” Hattori gasps, his voice dropping down to that odd low resonance that Yuujirou has never heard from him before today, that he won from the other with just the catch of his fingers and the press of his lips after his unsteady footing had thrown him right into the arms he wanted to be in. “Sorry, I--”

“Bedroom,” Yuujirou says, talking right over the other’s voice and not coherent enough to care, and Hattori makes a wordless noise of assent and tightens his hand against Yuujirou’s waist to urge him off the wall and stumbling back down the hallway once more. There’s a doorway, the faint glow of a streetlight through blinds drawn over a window; and Yuujirou’s ankle catches against resistance, and he falls gracelessly backwards to land against Hattori’s mattress. The impact doesn’t hurt, at least not with his head so dizzy with alcohol and his blood so hot with desire; but it does knock the wind out of him for a span of seconds, does leave him sprawled boneless against the neat lines of the sheets and blinking shock up at the ceiling from his suddenly-horizontal position. He’s still piecing the shift in his gravity into rationality when the mattress shifts with an increase in weight, and Hattori’s knee presses hard into the sheets alongside him, and then there’s the outline of the other man leaning in over him, his hand coming out to press against the bed just over Yuujirou’s shoulder.

“Yuujirou,” he says, his voice still purringly low but careful, now, as if he’s regained his presence of mind via the brief span of seconds spent away from the other’s mouth. His eyes are very dark in the dim lighting, his mouth curving down into the beginnings of a frown; he looks uncertain, hesitant, like he’s turning over some idea in his head. Yuujirou’s spine prickles with anxiety, much-delayed nervousness finally making itself known now nearly an hour after his first impulsive movement; but there had been no time for thought then, just the warm haze of intoxication and inhibitions melting away like snow under sunlight, and Hattori hadn’t been looking at him like this, then.

Yuujirou can feel himself frown with the beginnings of panic. “What?” he snaps, hearing his voice break on strain, aware he sounds petulant and not able to strip the emotion from his tone.

Hattori doesn’t so much as blink. He’s still studying Yuujirou’s face, his forehead creasing on consideration; Yuujirou doesn’t know what Hattori is reading from him, doesn’t know what story his unstructured expression is telling. “Are you sure you want this?”

Yuujirou blinks. “What?” he asks; and then, gaining traction, “ _What_?”

“You’ve been drinking--”

“ _Now_ is when you ask?” Yuujirou demands. He shifts an arm under himself, pushes up hard over his elbow to grant himself a few extra inches of height against the surrender of his prone position; it makes his head spin but he pushes the distraction aside. “I was pretty clear outside, wasn’t I?”

Hattori sighs gustily. “You were--”

“I’ve been asking you out for drinks for _weeks_ ,” Yuujirou tells him. “Was that not obvious enough for you?” Hattori blinks, his expression falling slack on surprise, and Yuujirou rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Apparently not.”

Hattori stares at him for a long moment. “I thought that was as coworkers.”

“Sure,” Yuujirou says. “If you like. We could fuck as coworkers too, if that makes you feel better. I don’t care what you call it as long as you want to keep going.”

Hattori’s laugh is too-loud, resonant against the close walls of the room before he can close his mouth on the sound. “I want to keep going.”

Some knot of tension Yuujirou didn’t know was there eases from his spine. “Okay,” he says, and lets himself fall back to lie across Hattori’s sheets again. “Let’s keep going then.”

Hattori takes a deep breath, lets it go again with metered care. “Okay,” he says, and leans in closer to press his mouth to Yuujirou’s. It’s only for a moment, just a brief warm weight to spill heat into Yuujirou’s blood and arch his spine into a responsive curve; then he’s pulling away, while Yuujirou is still reaching out for him, turning away and moving up off the bed to step towards the other side of the darkened room.

“You can take your clothes off,” Hattori says while he’s sliding open a drawer in the dresser in the corner.

Yuujirou’s eyebrows jump up. “Thanks for the permission,” he says, but he’s moving in spite of his teasing protest, pushing himself back to upright and reaching for the hem of his t-shirt without waiting for more. Hattori only takes a moment -- he’s returning with something in his hand before Yuujirou has yet dropped his shirt to the floor -- but Yuujirou doesn’t pause in reaching for the front of his jeans and starting to work open the fastenings on the denim.

“You’re more prepared than I thought you might be,” he says as he topples back over the sheets so he can arch up off the mattress and urge his jeans off his hips. Hattori glances at him, his gaze catching for a moment against the tension of elastic straining across the outline of Yuujirou’s cock inside his underwear, but he looks away again almost immediately, so quickly Yuujirou wouldn’t have caught the motion at all if he weren’t looking for it. But he was, and he did, and so he’s smiling as he kicks his jeans over the edge of the bed to join his shirt and reaches to pull his socks free as well. “I’m not the first person you’ve brought home from a bar, am I?”

Yuujirou is teasing. He hardly expects exclusivity when Hattori hadn’t even realized his invitations were dates; the only thing he’s really expecting from tonight is the satisfaction of sex, hopefully with some measure of skill involved, and maybe the warm contentment of someone else pressing against him while he drowses himself into sleep afterward. But Hattori doesn’t look at him when he says, “It’s good to be prepared,” and his voice is so carefully level it speaks volumes to his restraint as he says, “And you are, actually.”

“Oh.” Yuujirou considers this for a moment, against the intoxicated haze turning all his thoughts dizzy and warm inside the space of his head. “I guess it would be kinda out of character for you.”

“I’m not completely inexperienced,” Hattori says as he twists open the cap on the bottle in his hands and spills the shine of slick liquid across his fingers. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

“I’m not worried,” Yuujirou says. Hattori recaps the bottle, pressing his fingers together in idle friction as he sets it aside; Yuujirou can feel his heart beating faster at the promise carried by the sound of wet skin slipping over itself. He rocks his weight up off the bed again and catches at the elastic of his waistband while Hattori reaches out with his free hand to slide his fingers under the other side. Yuujirou can feel the drag of the other’s fingertips like a match catching to flame against the texture of his skin. “It’s kind of exciting to think I managed to seduce such a stoic into bed with me.”

Hattori huffs a laugh. “I’m not a stoic,” he says. Yuujirou draws his legs in towards himself to let Hattori slide his clothes down and off his ankles before dropping his heels back to the bed and canting his knees wide into an invitation. “Is that what you think of me?”

“I think a _lot_ of you,” Yuujirou tells him. Hattori presses a gentle hand against the inside of his knee, his fingers curling in against the line of Yuujirou’s thigh; it makes Yuujirou shudder with the sensation, makes his feet slip wider apart, and Hattori is reaching down with slick fingers to draw carefully across sensitive skin. “I--ah--isn’t that what I’ve been saying?”

“You have been,” Hattori admits. His touch presses, hesitates. “Are you ready?”

“I’ve been ready for _months_ ,” Yuujirou says. “Don’t keep me waiting now.” Hattori laughs gentle acknowledgement of this, the sound purring in Yuujirou’s ears and humming against the point of contact Hattori has with his knee; but he hardly notices, because Hattori is pushing into him with gentle force, and focusing on the drag of pressure stretching him open is more than enough to occupy the whole of his intoxicated attention.

“Oh,” he’s saying without thinking, his throat giving voice to unformed sounds of reaction that mean no more than the flex of his thighs and the involuntary, reflexive shift of his hips against the bed. “Oh, fuck, Hattori.”

“Akira,” Hattori reminds him. “Is this too much?”

Yuujirou shakes his head, the motion easier and quicker to offer than the words he finds a moment later: “No, this is fine, don’t stop.”

“Okay,” Hattori says, and he keeps going, pushing in with a pace so slow it would feel uncertain if it weren’t so absolutely steady. As it is Yuujirou feels like the other is reading the tension from his body, is parsing understanding from the shiver of movement along his thighs and the shift of his lashes as his vision flickers and clears, as if the involuntary actions of his body are creating a manuscript to lay all his reflexive reactions bare as the tells they are. Hattori’s touch is a stretch, Yuujirou can feel every inch of depth the other gains with each forward stroke; but it’s never too much, never sparks the tension against the inside of his thighs to the strain of sudden panic that would come with pain. There’s just pressure, odd but not wholly unpleasant as Hattori draws back and pushes in, until he’s found a rhythm without Yuujirou realizing, the gentle slide of his touch falling into a pattern Yuujirou only notices as the rush of heat in his veins falls into alignment with it. It’s almost soothing, to have the purr of sensation along his spine so wholly in someone else’s control, and Yuujirou makes no attempt at all to arch up for more or shift into action himself. It’s enough to gaze distraction at the ceiling, to let his vision haze out of importance as his whole attention draws in to focus around the flex of Hattori’s hand, around the steady-slow stroke of the other’s touch pressing inside him, until it’s almost more startling than anything else when that slow rhythm hesitates and stops.

“I’m going to try another,” Hattori says more than asks. His touch is sliding back and away; Yuujirou can feel the relief from the pressure shiver down his spine, can feel the ache of emptiness coming hard on its heels as Hattori’s touch slides out of him for a moment.

“Yeah,” Yuujirou says, agreement quick and unthinking; he tips his knees wider, as if the ache against the inside of his thighs can help ease the dull weight of want that came with the loss of Hattori’s touch. He tips his chin down to see Hattori kneeling between his legs, his gaze drawn down to the motion of his fingers as he presses slick friction against Yuujirou’s entrance again, and he keeps watching as he draws a hand over his hip and reaches for the heat of his cock. His breathing catches at the weight of his hand, his fingers curl into a familiar grip; and Hattori’s attention comes up, his eyes widening as Yuujirou takes a deliberate stroke up over himself.

“Hurry up,” Yuujirou suggests, aiming for purring flirtation but not sure it comes out as anything more coherent than anxious heat. “I didn’t come here for you to watch me jerk off.”

“Ah,” Hattori says, “yes” and he moves as suggested, ducking his head down to watch as he pushes against Yuujirou with two fingers together. It takes a moment before Yuujirou can relax to the intrusion, a breath before Hattori’s touch can push hard enough to slide inside him, but he’s groaning as soon as he feels the pressure, his toes curling against the sheets at the strain of Hattori’s fingers stretching him wider. The ache is sharper, like this, closer to the edge of pain, but he’s stroking faster over himself and the strain feels like electricity, feels like something that could turn into pleasure in the gap between one breath and the next.

“Fuck,” he says, blurting the sound more for the relief of it than any protest, and immediately “Keep going” even though there’s been no hesitation in Hattori’s motion into him. Yuujirou can feel Hattori’s fingers against his knee flex a little tighter, press a little deeper against his skin, but he’s not watching anymore; he’s dropped his head back to the sheets, has returned to gazing hazy-eyed and open-mouthed at the ceiling while he breathes in ever-speeding inhales against the strain of Hattori’s fingers and the satisfaction of his own. They fall into rhythm with each other, the careful thrust of Hattori’s movements and the well-learned pace of Yuujirou’s strokes, and the pressure inside him is too much of a distraction for the heat of his own movement to gain the traction of anticipation but it’s a benefit anyway, it’s resonating down his spine with the promise of something deeper, richer, weightier than the casual pleasure he usually achieves before bed or standing under the spray of the shower. It’s thrilling to have someone else setting a pace of his own, exciting to think of Hattori pushing deeper inside him and feeling the shudder of Yuujirou’s response around his fingers; and then Hattori pauses, his fingers tensing like he’s reaching for something, and Yuujirou catches a breath and struggles for words.

“Higher,” he manages, the word coming out strained and almost as a moan that he doesn’t try to restrain. “You’re close, it’s right--” and Hattori’s fingers shift to press deeper inside him, and Yuujirou chokes off his words as his whole body tries to flex itself into heat at once. It’s not even pleasure as much as it is intensity, a tension that radiates through his entire body before he can catch a breath, and then Hattori is drawing back and Yuujirou is gasping towards the ceiling, feeling undone and breathless as his body eases away from that moment of sensation.

“There,” he says, as if Hattori needs to be told. “Do that--” and Hattori does it again, cutting Yuujirou off with enough force this time that Yuujirou’s head angles back hard against the sheets, that his voice breaks into something nearly a wail instead. Hattori keeps moving, short, quick thrusts like he’s trying to test Yuujirou’s reactions, and Yuujirou is left to shudder against the bed, his legs tensing and relaxing in helpless tremors he doesn’t have any hope of smoothing to calm. His hand has gone still, he realizes distantly, but there’s heat pooling low in his stomach anyway, rising up the arc of his spine in answer to Hattori’s fingers now instead of his own. Yuujirou is panting for air, his back straining and his free hand fisting at the sheets; and then Hattori draws his fingers back all at once, the pressure sliding free before Yuujirou can protest. By the time he’s gasped himself into an inhale Hattori’s hold at his knee is gone too and the other is drawing away and off the bed entirely; and Yuujirou would whine complaint, would demand the other’s return, except that Hattori is looking down as he catches the hem of his shirt to tug it up over his head, and Yuujirou’s whole body is going hot with the frisson of understanding anticipation.

“God,” he says, the heat pressing against his chest demanding voice even in this one incoherent word, and he’s moving again, stroking up over himself as he lets his knees slide wider in instinctive anticipation. Hattori is watching the movement of his hands as he undoes his buckle and slides his belt free of his pants, and Yuujirou is watching him, his breathing catching faster on the strain of expectation forming itself from the shadows in the room. Hattori unfastens his pants, and catches his fingers under the waistband to slide them off his hips, and it’s then that he raises his head to glance back at Yuujirou sprawling across his bed, his focus so dark with intent that it holds Yuujirou’s intoxicated attention even as Hattori’s pants slide free of warm-flushed skin. Hattori shifts to step free of his clothes and folds his pants over on themselves to drape carefully over the back of a chair, but Yuujirou is barely paying attention; he’s pushing up over the bed instead, angling an elbow underneath himself to brace his weight as he sits up in some vague intention of bridging the gap between Hattori and himself. Hattori steps back in towards the bed, his dark gaze still fixed on the other, and Yuujirou’s idle hold on himself slides free without any thought on his part at all, his hand lifting to stretch for Hattori’s shoulder before he has thought through what he’s doing. His fingers skim warm skin, his hand closes against the back of the other’s neck, and Hattori is leaning in as fast as Yuujirou can urge him closer, his mouth settling against the other’s almost before he has his knees against the sheets. His lips are warm, the pressure gentle and measured even as Yuujirou whimpers appreciation and parts his lips in open invitation, and his hand is catching at Yuujirou’s back, the open spread of his fingers bracing the other in place as Hattori leans in closer to urge him back over the sheets. Yuujirou goes without the least protest, lets Hattori take the support of his weight instead of the angle of his elbow, and then he’s lying flat across Hattori’s bed and Hattori is leaning in over him and Yuujirou can feel anticipation crackling in tiny, electric shivers all across his skin. Hattori pulls away for a moment and looks down again, ducking his head while he reaches to close his fingers around the base of his cock to hold himself steady, and Yuujirou lets his attention wander against the soft dark of Hattori’s hair falling across his forehead, lets his fingers slip up and off the back of the other’s neck to drag gently through the short-cut strands instead. Hattori ducks his head further, the shift implicit encouragement for the contact, and Yuujirou is smiling and spreading his fingers wide against the soft; but then Hattori shifts his weight, and there’s the press of hot skin against the inside of Yuujirou’s thigh, and everything else he was thinking of dissolves into a low moan in his throat as all the flickering adrenaline in him coalesces into sudden, bright anticipation.

“Yes,” he says, even though Hattori’s only just leaning over him, his knees sliding needlessly wider until he can feel the ache of the angle running all the way up the inside of his thighs. “Akira, yes, please, fuck me, please.”

“I am,” Hattori tells him. His head is still ducked down as he watches what he’s doing but there’s a tension on the words, a strain like laughter barely held to quiet on his tongue. “I will.”

“Please,” Yuujirou repeats, his words coming as fast and involuntarily as the thud of his heartbeat racing in his chest. Hattori bumps against him again, the head of the other’s cock catching and sliding over Yuujirou’s skin, and Yuujirou’s fingers are tightening against Hattori’s head as if he intends to pull the other to him bodily. Hattori takes a breath, low and deliberate enough that Yuujirou can hear the weight of it, and then he slides into alignment, and Yuujirou only has the chance to start in on a startled, overheated inhale before Hattori is rocking his hips forward to slide his cock into the tension of the other’s body. Yuujirou’s breathing goes, his half-finished inhale inverts into a moan as his head goes back, but he doesn’t listen to the sound any more than he thinks about the way his fingers are flexing and easing at the back of Hattori’s head; all his attention is focusing instead on the slow stretch of Hattori pushing into him, on the ache expanding out into his body as Hattori’s cock fills him. The friction is more than the other’s fingers offered, the strain the greater for the increased breadth; and Hattori is breathing harder over him, too, the sound of his inhales is going ragged in spite of all the composure Yuujirou has always seen him maintain. The promise of that is enough to bring Yuujirou’s attention back to his vision, enough to unwind a little of his blind focus on the feel of Hattori inside him so he can see the way Hattori looks over him too, so he can see the way the other’s head is ducked and his lashes are falling heavy to cover his eyes as he pants for air. He looks like he’s fighting for composure, like he’s reaching for the fragments of his scattered attention, and Yuujirou can feel his whole body draw tense on the possibility of that, on the sudden, helpless desire to see that entirely lost.

“Akira,” he says, and he didn’t mean the other’s name to spill into such a purr of heat but he doesn’t try to take it back. Hattori’s forehead tenses, creases like he’s fighting for focus, and Yuujirou lifts his other hand to slide against the other’s hair alongside the first, to let his touch drag over and back to slide against the back of Hattori’s neck and down to the strain in his shoulders. “You feel _so_ good.”

“Oh,” Hattori says, and his head dips farther forward, his expression lost to shadow as his shoulders curve up under Yuujirou’s touch. His hand shifts, his fingers skimming over Yuujirou’s hip to press his thumb in against the angle of bone taut under the other’s skin before he draws back by an inch and thrusts forward again, his fingers flexing harder against Yuujirou in a tell for the effort the careful motion costs him. Yuujirou’s spine arches for the friction, his whole body radiating heat in response to the slide of Hattori pushing into him, and when he moves it’s to tighten his arm around Hattori’s shoulders, to pull and urge the other down closer against him.

“Please,” he says, lifting his head to press his lips close against Hattori’s ear, to flutter his lashes to distraction as his voice drops low and thrumming over the heat. “Akira, please, I want you to _fuck_ me.”

Hattori’s fingers flex tight against his skin. “I am,” he says, but his next thrust is a little faster, a little harder, and he forgets to loosen his bracing hold on Yuujirou’s hip this time. Yuujirou lets the force knock a moan from his throat, lets his arms tighten until Hattori is bearing as much of his weight as the bed.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, and he’s making a show of it but it’s still sincere, it’s just a matter of loosening the fetters of composure enough to let his voice skid out on itself as it jumps to the high registers that scrape and wail in the back of his throat. “ _Akira_.”

“Yuujirou,” Hattori says, his voice so low in his chest Yuujirou almost doesn’t recognize it, and then his bracing arm slides sideways, he lets himself tip forward and down against Yuujirou underneath him, and when he moves this time it’s hard enough to scatter any kind of coherent thought out of Yuujirou’s head. The sound he makes this time is completely unplanned, a sharp, broken-off moan of heat that sounds as much pained as pleasured, but he’s moving too, hooking his legs around Hattori’s hips and pressing his heels in hard to draw the other closer against him. Hattori makes a low sound, something deep and purring so far down in his chest Yuujirou can feel it more than he can hear it, and then his fingers tighten to brace Yuujirou in place under him and he starts to move, rocking his hips through short, sharp thrusts that force all coherency from Yuujirou’s lips in the form of whimpering moans that spill with every movement Hattori takes into him. He’s focused about it, thrusting with a rhythm that Yuujirou can feel surging up his spine to take the place of his heartbeat as the focus for his existence, and Yuujirou’s breathing is going ragged and desperate and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care about anything at all except the weight of Hattori driving into him and the ache of heat knotting low in his stomach and along the curve of his spine.

“Fuck,” Yuujirou is panting, his voice shattering open on itself in a way he didn’t intend and can’t hold back. “Fuck, Akira, you.”

“You feel good,” Hattori says, the words purring against Yuujirou’s hair like some kind of benediction, and Yuujirou’s arms tighten around Hattori’s neck in helpless response. His whole body flares hot, he can feel it as clearly as if he’s glowing from the inside out with the heat, and Hattori groans over him and rocks his hips forward in a thrust hard enough to flash white over Yuujirou’s vision. Yuujirou groans, instinctive response too hot in him to hold back, and one arm falls slack from Hattori’s shoulders, his hand slides down to press between the strain of Hattori working over him and the tremor of sensation fluttering across his own stomach. His cock is hard to the touch, aching for sensation that his desperate grip readily grants, and then he’s jerking up over himself, groaning through the surge of heat that comes with it as his legs flex around Hattori’s hips and his body clenches tight around the other’s cock. Hattori makes a sound against his hair, something dark and wanting, and when he moves again it’s with more force, with enough weight behind the action that the hand at Yuujirou’s hip tightens to a brace instead of just another point of contact. Not that Yuujirou needs the hold; he’s clinging to Hattori’s neck, pressing himself as close against the other as he can get as he pants some incoherent slur of heat and encouragement against the curve of the other’s ear. They fall fast, “Akira” and “good” and “more” without any logic to the sounds, without any thought under them but the want uncurling out into his veins from the frantic drag of his fingers up over himself and the pressure of Hattori stretching him open with each forward thrust. Yuujirou feels dizzy, feels undone, like the intoxication of his earlier drinks is reemerging in the heat of pleasure to unfocus his vision and unfasten his thoughts, but he doesn’t let Hattori go and doesn’t slow the pace of his stroking movements. Hattori is holding him to stillness against the bed, still rocking into him with those deliberate motions like he never intends to stop or slow, but Yuujirou is trembling, Yuujirou’s movements are going desperate and jerky as the friction of his hand over himself and Hattori’s cock thrusting into him spike high, higher, high enough to drown out the sound of his panting breathing and the pressure of his voice in his chest and -- and Hattori pushes into him, and Yuujirou’s throat opens up on “ _Akira_ ,” and he’s coming in long, full-body shudders that undo the strain of tension along his spine as his cock jerks and stripes sticky heat across his stomach and Hattori’s warm skin against him. Yuujirou can’t stop shaking, can’t stop moaning through every inhale, and Hattori is moving faster over him, panting for air as his composure gives way to the desperate strain of oncoming satisfaction. Each forward thrust flares blinding pressure out into Yuujirou’s body, each slide back grants him a gap to struggle through another inhale, and Hattori is gasping, now, breathing so hard Yuujirou can feel the rush of the air ruffle the strands of his hair.

“Akira,” he says, and then again, louder, as Hattori’s hips come forward and his cock presses against overstimulated nerve endings: “ _Akira_ ” almost a plea in his throat. It’s too much, Yuujirou is sure, his vision is flickering and his breathing is catching and his fingertips are tingling themselves to numbness, the tremor of aftershocks running through him too great and too extended for him to bear. But he doesn’t tell Hattori to stop, doesn’t _want_ Hattori to stop, and so it continues, Yuujirou’s awareness coming apart at the seams until he feels like his whole existence is wrapped around the press of Hattori fucking into him and that hand gripping bruise-tight at his hip. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, doesn’t know if he’s speaking at all, if maybe the resonance humming in his chest isn’t just an endless moan of heat that is all he has become, and then somewhere in the dizzy haze of the forgotten world around him Hattori gasps an inhale and says “Yuujirou,” with a strain that finishes the sentence for him before he’s given voice to “I’m going to come” with the same deliberate care that set the rhythm of his motion.

Yuujirou can feel his spine arch, can feel his whole body draw tense on a shudder of involuntary response, and suddenly it’s anticipation in him again, an echo of his own satisfaction unfolding in his veins to tighten his arm around Hattori’s shoulders, to turn his mouth in closer against the other’s ear.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, and he didn’t mean for that to go so purring with heat but Hattori’s fingers tense at his hip, and Hattori groans something incoherent at his shoulder, and so Yuujirou keeps going without trying to level his tone off into something more reasonable. “Yes, Akira, I want you to, let me feel you, please, I want--” and Hattori gasps an inhale, and tenses over him, and Yuujirou can feel a whole-body tremor of pleasure run through the form pressed so close against his. There’s heat inside him, the pulse of satisfaction punctuated with a few arrhythmic, jerky thrusts, and over him Hattori is groaning against Yuujirou’s shoulder, his grip at the other’s hip going slack and gentle as his body sags to the languid relief of heat. Yuujirou takes a breath of air, feels his whole body trembling with relief and heat and sensation all together, and lets the dizzy haze of pleasure leave him drifting to comfort against the spread of Hattori’s sheets under him and the weight of the other’s body pressing him down against the soft of the bed.

Hattori sighs against Yuujirou’s shoulder, the sound weighed down with all the heat that satisfaction can bring with it. His hand shifts, easing from Yuujirou’s hip and sliding away to press against the bed instead, and when he pulls back and away Yuujirou lets him go without protest, lets his hold around the other’s shoulders fall slack and open across the sheets while he stays where he is, sprawled on his back and gazing dreamily up at the ceiling overhead.

“Yuujirou,” Hattori says, his voice humming through the dark of the room like a premonition of the touch that follows hard on its heels, the weight of fingertips catching to press gently against Yuujirou’s cheek like he’s feeling out the shape of the other’s face. “Are you okay?”

“Mm.” Yuujirou blinks, draws his vision back into focus with the hazy slowness of exhaustion and intoxication and pleasure combining in his veins, and tips his chin down to look at Hattori. The other man is kneeling against the sheets, his mouth soft and his eyes dark; he’s looking at Yuujirou with that intense focus behind his eyes that he brings to everything he does, as if the other is unquestionably the most important thing in the world to him right now. It makes Yuujirou smile, the expression unfurling against the easy sweep of satisfaction that spreads out into his chest, and he lets his lingering hold on himself go, lets his hand weight against the sticky mess over his stomach as he lifts his other to touch Hattori’s shoulder. He misjudges the distance by an inch, misses the weight of the contact he had intended, but his fingers catch at the other’s chest instead, and that’s enough distraction in itself to hold his dreamy focus as his fingers wander down the sweat-warmed lines of the other’s body.

“Yeah.” His touch skims the bottom of Hattori’s ribs, drags over the flat line of his stomach; he can see the muscles twitch under his touch in ticklish response that Hattori only acknowledges with a tiny huff of air. “I’m great.”

Hattori is still watching his face when Yuujirou looks back up from the idle path his fingertips are making against the line of the other’s hip; his thumb is still catching just against Yuujirou’s cheekbone, his gaze is still fixed on Yuujirou’s face. There’s a flutter of tension in Yuujirou’s chest, like a shiver of pleasure so late to the main event that it’s arriving as its own tremor, and he can feel his smile tug wider even before Hattori says, “Do you want to spend the night?” with the same deliberate consideration he is giving to Yuujirou’s face.

Yuujirou watches Hattori for a moment; not from any need to hesitate in his answer, but just to appreciate the focus in the other’s eyes, the all-in commitment to his answer that is lingering so taut in the air. He takes a breath, and blinks slow, and then he says “Sure,” and watches Hattori’s expression go warm on a smile soft enough to match Yuujirou’s own. The hand at his cheek slides across his skin, Hattori’s fingers press gently into his hair, and Yuujirou is shutting his eyes in expectation of a kiss well before Hattori is leaning in to press his mouth to the other’s. Yuujirou lifts his hand from Hattori’s hip, and reaches up to curl his touch against the back of the other’s neck, and when Hattori tips in closer against him Yuujirou arches up to meet him halfway.

Yuujirou’s thoughts are still hazy and heat-blurred, but with Hattori pressing warm against him he doesn’t see any problem with the loss of some focus.


End file.
